


I Am Yours (You Are Mine)

by dancinghopper



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, F/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinghopper/pseuds/dancinghopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They make a survival plan.</p><p>They never expect to need it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Yours (You Are Mine)

It starts out as a joke. They laugh as they watch _Shaun of the Dead_ , eating pizza out of the box and playing footsie.

A few beers later, and they’ve bought a house tucked away on a cliff in Canada.  Before they know it they’re paying to have it done up with bullet-proof glass and steel walls.

“Just in case,” says Clint, grinning and slightly tipsy.

Natasha nods her head, clinking her drink with his.

“Just in case.”

 

 

* * *

 

They make a survival plan. 

They never expect to need it.

 

* * *

 

One day Natasha wakes up in a cave of concrete and rubble. Her head is throbbing, and when she gingerly raises a hand to it she finds a sticky mess of bright red blood. Her muscles are aching, each movement causing shooting spouts of pain up her limbs. It takes three hours before she’s able to move about comfortably, suggesting she’s been out four, maybe five days. She sits up.

Her surroundings are hidden by a great big triangular slab of concrete that’s pinned her to the wall. There’s light streaming in through the gaps, the largest being about foot or so long and two feet wide. She pokes her head out as far as she can, but doesn’t see much except for a heap of rubble and a stray tire. 

God, her head is _killing_ her.

Judging by the brightness of the sunlight, she guesses it to be about mid-afternoon. A good enough time as any to find out what the hell has happened. With a great deal of effort, pain, and grimacing, she manages to squeeze out through the hole.

The sudden brightness overpowers her, and she stands completely still for a few seconds, blinking and adjusting. Then her surroundings hit her. She’s in, well, what used to be the foyer to Avengers Tower. Except now there’s a great big gaping hole in the roof. And a dead Jane Foster.

The last part takes a while to sink in. She stares at Jane, trying to work it out, understand why she’s lying so still, why she looks so pale. That’s when she realises.

She throws up in the waste paper basket.

 

* * *

 

Someone’s laid her out on her back and closed her eyes. Her face looks at peace, almost as if she were sleeping, and the only imperfection is a bright red lipstick mark on her forehead. The rest of her body is not so unblemished. She wonders what could have possibly happened that would just _leave_ her, not even rush her to hospital. She looks away. The TV screen mounted on the wall flickers with static all of a sudden, causing Natasha to jump. JARVIS’s voice comes out over the speakers, eerily disjointed and sending shivers through her spine.

“Good afternoon, Miss Romanoff. I have been instructed to inform you that the world is currently in a post-apocalyptic state.”

_What?_

Images of Tokyo, Minneapolis, London, Shanghai and countless other cities emerge on the screen, each one more terrible than the rest. Dead bodies, destroyed buildings - Bangladesh looks like a bomb has hit it, with fumes emerging off everything in sight.

“I am sorry, Miss Romanoff,” JARVIS’s voice sounds weak, strangled, and then the TV shuts down.

Natasha gapes at it for all of 6 seconds. Then she sets into action, wasting no time. Natasha is - always has been, always will be - a survivor. Whatever the hell this is, she will live through it. She has to.

Quickly, nimbly, with twenty years of training, she scales the sides of the walls, up through the hole in the ceiling and up to the fourth floor. It’s a wonder even this part of the tower is still standing, given that it’s missing half it’s structure. She manoeuvres her way over to the fridge, sticking close to the outside walls. With great difficulty, she swings open the fridge door as it teeters over the edge, and grabs what’s inside - half a pizza, a couple of carrots and a banana.

It’s better than she expected. 

She grabs Steve’s hoodie off the couch and throws it on over her cat-suit. It might be hot at the moment, but she knows she’s likely only survived through the nights because she’s been sleeping under a slab of concrete that absorbs heat. She shoves her food and a wool blanket into a stray gym bag (Darcy’s, she thinks), and throws it over her shoulders as she climbs back down to the foyer. Her next step is figuring out how to get to the underground weapons room. After an hour of searching, she finally finds the elevator shaft and shimmies down it. Surprisingly, the door has already been forced open and she can step into the room with ease.

It’s totally cleaned out, at least as far as she can see. She rounds to her area first, shocked to find her widows bites and two guns waiting for her. She starts to get an anxious feeling in her gut… it all seems too easy… the door being open, everything missing except her own weapons. In one fluid motion, she rips the gun from its holder, cocks it and rapidly turns to face the person who’s crept up on her.

Except there’s no one there. Her breathing starts to feel laboured and panicked, her minds starts screaming ‘ _it’s a trap!_ ’ but then she catches sight of something purple, something she’d missed the first time around. It’s a spray painted purple heart with an arrow through it.

Her eyes widen.

 

* * *

 

She finds another sign a couple of blocks from Avengers tower. This time it’s the word “survive”, and a “H” with an arrow making up one of the lines.

She decides that she will.

 

* * *

 

It’s four months before she sees another person. The little rascal tries to nip her corn chips when she thinks Natasha isn’t looking. She doesn’t catch her until the last second, which impresses her. 

“Drop it,” she orders, holding up her gun instinctively. The girl squeaks and lets go, the bag falling to the ground. Before Natasha can say anything else the girl has vanished into the night, slipping down a dark alley to god knows where.

She feels a sickening feeling in her gut as she eats the chips. She leaves some behind the next morning, just in case.

 

* * *

 

After a year of walking she finds out why there are so little survivors.

She sets up camp in an abandoned restaurant. There was another purple ‘H’ on a door a few blocks down, so she’s decided to camp close by, in case he’s still around. She barricades herself inside the pantry, and it’s the safest she’s felt in a long time, knowing no one can get to her while she sleeps. The shutters on the doors let a little light through, and also provide her with a relatively clear view of the restaurant’s foyer. She takes advantage of the 1 by 2 metre room and sets up a semi-permanent camp, and pulls on an entire set of fresh clothes. With her gun in her hand, she sleeps soundly for the first night in a year.

The next day she stays at her camp, reorganising her bag and pilfering whatever supplies and food she can find. By a stroke of luck she is able to come across a needle and some thread. She douses the needle in hand sanitiser (a luxury she found on day 278) and sews up a nasty gash on her leg. It’s infected, but she’s confident enough in the red room’s experiments to trust she’ll make a full recovery. She settles down under her blanket and drifts off to sleep for a few hours.

She wakes up to voices and a flood of panic.

“Get a move on, I’m starved.”

It’s a man’s voice, rough and hard. Natasha silently removes her blanket and moves to a crouching position, hand curling protectively around her gun. She creeps to the pantry door, looking through the shutters so she can see what’s going on. She has a clear view of two men, both cast in light from the fire they’ve lit. The first is tall and spindly, with sandy blonde hair and a scar running down the side of his face. His blue eyes look almost soft, but are loaded with a mix of regret and determination. Tied around his waist is a leather belt with a coil of rope and a dagger strapped to it. He barks another order at someone she can’t see and stokes the fire. She watches with wide eyes as the third man enters, dragging the body of a woman with him. They strip her and she frowns in confusion until the third man raises an axe and - _oh god no._

She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows, hard.

The second man says a prayer in french, his voice seemingly amplified in the silence of the night. Natasha can only catch whispers of it, the occasional word spoken louder than the rest. She hears a prayer forgiveness, a plea for removal from this hell, and then nothing. 

They eat in silence, Natasha surveying from a distance. At one point the second man whispers something about a ‘ _Marie_ ’, which prompts the third to slug him in the jaw, shouting as he does so. She watches from the shadows as they lay down to rest, sits through the night still as a statue, and watches as they pack up, taking what’s left of the girl’s body with them. Her muscles are frozen when she finally stands, but she pushes onwards through the pain, shaken from the encounter and deciding there and then that she will not allow herself to reach that level, no matter how hungry she is.

 _I won’t_ , she thinks, _I won’t, I won’t, I won’t._

 

* * *

 

Natasha shivers and pulls her jacket tighter around her, fingers numb from the wind and rain. It makes her wonder about Thor, about what he’s doing, if he even knows what’s happening on Earth. She thinks he must, after all, didn’t he say something about an all-seeing friend of his? Maybe it’s on Asgard, too. Maybe it’s everywhere. Over two years and she still doesn’t really know what ‘it’ is. She pulls herself back down to reality and focuses on what’s in front of her. The metal rail road gleams up at her, an endless road to nowhere. She’s glad of it though, because without it she’s sure she would have lost her way in all this rain and fog. Each step drags on, her sodden boots squelching with each muddy step. It feels as if all she has been doing is walking. Each day, she wakes, eats if she can, and then walks. Where is she walking to? Why? Why not just lie down, give up? The thoughts plague her mind, and even after 700 days she has gotten no better at blocking them out. She blinks herself back into reality, forces herself to focus on where she’s walking.

_Just keep looking forward. Come on - wait._

She squints. Was that movement up ahead or are her eyes playing tricks on her? Her eyes lock on to a dark shadow that runs from the forest. Humanoid, probably carrying a pack, judging from the lumpy shape on it’s back. Another survivor. She quickens her pace, walking swiftly on the railroads to avoid making noise, although it wouldn't be heard over the storm anyway.

The figure stops about 30 yards away. Natasha watches, crouching down to blend in with the ground. She’s learnt to be suspicious about the survivors ever since her run in with the gang at the restaurant. Lack of food can turn humans back into animals. She’s hardly about to go running up to one - she’d be able to take them out, sure, but she’s not going to waste valuable ammunition if she doesn’t have to.

The figure crouches down also for about 20 seconds, then stands and continues walking. Natasha follows, never letting her eyes leave them. She trudges on until she reaches the point where the figure stopped, and nearly falls over. 

Because there, in purple spray paint, is a “H” with an arrow making up the left line.

And it’s still wet.

 

* * *

 

She loses all reason, just takes off running.

“Clint!” she screams, forgetting all about strategies and tailing. “CLINT!”

The wind is whipping in her eyes as she tries to keep up, but the rail roads are slippery and she’s completely worn down the rubber soles of her boots. A crack of thunder rolls overhead. God, if only this storm would stop so he could hear her!

_Hear her._

_Oh,_ **_FUCK_ ** _._

Panic and desperation flood her system, because how could she be so _stupid_? Of course his hearing aids wouldn’t have lasted this long. She’s got no chance. Except - 

She grabs the biggest branch she can find and starts banging on the metal rails, spelling out his name in morse code. It’s the best chance she’s got, because if she loses him in this storm the likelihood of finding him again is practically zero. She repeats his name again, then switches to the Russian word for ‘hawk’. She gets down on her knees and places both hands on the rails, willing the vibrations to have carried, willing him to reply. 

There’s nothing. She waits one minute, then two. Still nothing. But then -

__  ._  …  ….  ._  .._ _.._

_(Tasha?)_

She nearly weeps when she feels the vibrations under her fingertips, and quickly spells her reply.

__._ _  .  …_

_(Yes)_

She takes off running again, except this time someone meets her half way. She gets ten feet away from him before she starts beaming for the first time in two years. She throws herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him firmly, clawing at him as he grips her so tightly it’s almost painful. There are hot tears streaming down her face and she thinks he’s crying too, but eventually they break apart and run to the shelter of the woods, still gripping onto each others hands as if if they let go the other will disappear. Her mind is a fog, only emotions driving her. But for the first time since this started, she thinks she will be okay.

 

* * *

 

Clint has a tarp, so they string it up in an enclosed spot, blocking them from the wind and storm, and honestly it’s almost luxury. She shows him the one-man tent she procured two nights ago and together they set it up and pile in their dry clothes and blankets. She eats two of his crackers and gives him a strip of beef jerky, and they wash it down with an extremely bitter black coffee. They make love in her dingy little tent with the sound of rain bucketing down around them, and it’s cramped and uncomfortable and a little bit perfect, because Clint’s _here_ and _alive_. They swap stories, and it’s a blessed relief to Natasha that his sense of humour and dry wit have survived, that she can still see the Clint Barton she fell in love with underneath his hardened exterior. Somehow, just by his presence, she feels more like herself than she has in years. For a moment they can forget that they’re living in hell.

 

* * *

 

They start their walk home together.

 

* * *

 

Natasha asks about the others. She’s been hesitant to, doesn’t think she wants to know if it’s bad news, but at the same time is absolutely desperate for information about her friends. Clint’s eyes go dark, and he tells her that Stark and Pepper definitely made it out of the collapsing Avengers Tower, but Steve…

Natasha allows herself to cry on Clint’s shoulder, bitterly blames herself for being the reason he and Steve ran back into the building, and the reason Steve didn’t come back out. 

“You never know…” says Clint, voice hoarse in their little tent, “He could have made it out. He could have. The guy was practically a god, right?”

His voice cracks on the last word and Natasha knows she isn’t the only one blaming herself. 

 

* * *

 

On Day 841 they reach their safe house, bought such a long time ago, when they were drunk and stupid and lived in a decidedly safer world. Natasha blinks a few times in disbelief.

“You… you put a _20 foot wall_ around it?”

Clint looks at her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah. I mean, granted, at the time I was thinking about zombies, but it’s kinda appropriate here. To keep people out, and stuff.”

She blinks again.

“Huh.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing they do is make a sweep of the house, guns and arrows drawn, but it checks out. Then they inspect the garage.

 

* * *

 

“No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way.”

“What were you even _thinking_?”

“I was thinking that if I’m gonna be in the apocalypse I wanna be in it in style, and to do that I want to have a fucking Aston Martin as my car.”

“You are so stupid.”

“Yada, yada, yada, Nat.”

(She’s actually glad, in a way. It’s a semblance of something normal, that Clint's still making stupid decisions and bantering about their worth).

 

* * *

 

Four years pass. 

They do not leave the house aside from their weekly area scouts. Both panic when the other is late back from one, but neither will admit to it. The days turn into repetitive cycles - they practice their skills, they eat, they sleep. Every so often one will wonder about the others, make an idle remark, but nothing ever comes of it. Truthfully, both are thankful for the amount of thought they placed in the house when they bought it. It’s fully self sufficient, using solar panels and rain water, so sometimes it’s easy to forget that there’s seemingly no one outside the walls.

They have it good - wonderful, even - but it all feels pointless. There’s no longer anything to talk about - Natasha can’t remember the last time she laughed, or the last time they talked about something that wasn’t where they were going to get food from.

Natasha starts to wonder if their life is destined to be forever like this, or if anything will ever change. If anything _can_ change.

Four years, 6 months and 8 days after she woke up in a pile of rubble, she misses a period.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly the stakes are much higher.

She spends a week crying in the bathroom, because how can she bring a child into _this._ She’s never wanted to be a mother, didn’t even think she _could_ be a mother, but all of a sudden she’s going to have to be, and she’s going to have to do it in a world that barely counts as one anymore.

She hides it from Clint for 5 months, and then she begins to show. It’s both a blessing and a torment, because up until now she’s been holding onto a scrap of hope that maybe her body was just especially fucked up, and she wasn’t pregnant, but now it’s all but confirmed. Up until then, she’s been dreading the imminent birth, but as Clint rubs a hand over her belly, and asks for the third time whether this is real, she feels herself smile.

 

* * *

 

“Momma! Momma!”

The screams echo throughout the house, ice cold knives slash into Natasha’s skin and she runs, not even stopping to grab her gun before she is throwing herself outside, because who cares about _strategies_ and _battle plans -_ she is the _Black Widow_ , she will tear apart any living soul who even _dares_ to try and hurt her daughter -

But it’s not her daughter.

It’s Clint.

 

* * *

 

He’s soaked in blood when he collapses, falling straight atop her carefully crafted herb garden with only a croaked ‘Tash’. She rushes to him, barks orders at her little girl to fetch the first aid box, then forces her hands to stop shaking and presses her fingers against his throat, reassures herself that he’s _alive_ , that she hasn’t lost him.

She teaches the small red-head how to bandage wounds, watches her chubby fingers struggle to wrap the gauze around her father’s arm. Natasha’s heart breaks a little behind her mask.

She had always promised herself that she would never re-create the Black Widow program, had always forbidden herself to impose that upon any child.

And yet the next day is the day that little Stephanie learns to fight.

 

* * *

 

She always knew she was going to die at some point.

She’s not sure what they’ve done - maybe the whispers from the street were true - but they’ve obviously gathered _someone’s_ attention, if the armed soldiers storming their house are anything to go buy.

“Duck!”

Clint chucks a homemade grenade past her head - she spins, taking the legs out from underneath the nearest assailant. A knife wedges itself in another’s chest, and he collapses to the ground. Stephanie swipes his gun, chucking it in Natasha’s direction.

“Mom!” 

She grabs it, opens fire on the stairwell and then shoves the door closed, barricading it with a chair and then taking out another two black-clad figures. They move, ever the perfect team, so they stand in the centre of the room, back to back, weapons drawn and grim expressions.

“See you on the other side?” asks Steph in a drawl, and _god_ , Natasha is so glad she inherited Clint’s humour.

“Wouldn’t miss it, darling,” says Clint, drawing his bow string tight.

She shakes her head, laughing despite the fact that _none_ of them are getting out of this alive.

“You’re both idiots,” Natasha says, although they all know what she really means is _I love you_ and _don’t die_ , and god she isn't going to cry, it’ll impair her targeting, but the thought of the two people she loves getting wiped out -

The doors burst open.

The last thing she hears is a quick shout of “SHIT!” from Clint, and the emptying of her own guns, and Stephanie yelling for her mother, and then the whole room is up in flames, and Natasha is falling and pain is ripping through her body and everything is dissolving into blackness.

 

* * *

 

Her last conscious thought, in the blaze and heat of the place she once called home, is from before. The voice echoes in her head, near and far, loud and silent;

_“Love you, Nat.”_

_“Love you too, birdbrain.”_


End file.
